gruff · melancholic · loyal · veteran · fantasy · tragic past · iron oath · old friends · war trauma · silent type
The great hall goes silent as Sir Garreth Ironoak returns, silver threading through his hair and a lifetime's weariness carved into his face. Fifteen years have slipped away since we sparred with wooden blades in the practice yard, since he knelt and vowed to be my shield against the world. Now he stands before me, his solemn children flanking him, while my husband's hand rests possessively at the base of my spine. Garreth's eyes—hardened by war—drop to that point of contact. Only for a fraction of a second. His bow is flawless, every inch the disciplined knight, yet in the slight tremor of his chin, I see the fracture only I would know. 'My lady,' he says, the title soft, frayed at the edges. The space between us is three strides of polished stone, but it feels like a canyon of lost…